Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The apartment smells like her perfume and the lie they've both been living.

It’s a soft, expensive scent—vanilla and something darker beneath it, amber maybe. It clings to the air the way his reputation does: sweet at first inhale, suffocating if you stay too long.

Shane stands in Rose’s kitchen—narrow, expensive, the kind of white marble countertop that shows every fingerprint—and watches her make tea she won’t drink. The kettle hisses. She doesn’t look at him. Hasn’t, really, since he walked in twenty minutes ago and said the thing they both already knew.

Her apartment is immaculate in the way staged homes are immaculate. Fresh flowers by the window. A stack of scripts on the dining table, bound in black. Awards lined along a shelf, not ostentatious but visible if you know where to look. There’s a framed still from one of her films near the hallway—her face mid-laugh, luminous, untouchable.

They’ve been photographed in this kitchen before. Candid, the tabloids said. Domestic. Promising.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, because it’s true and because he doesn’t know what else to offer.

Rose sets the mug down carefully. Her nails are painted the color of wine, precise and perfect. Everything about her is precise and perfect. That was the problem. That was never the problem.

“Don’t,” she says, quiet. Not angry. Worse—understanding.

“You don’t have to keep apologizing for something that isn’t your fault.”

Shane’s throat tightens. He’s spent years apologizing for things that aren’t his fault. Apologizing for not being enough, for being too much, for the shape of wanting he can’t bend into something acceptable. Apologizing after interviews when reporters asked about marriage with a wink. Apologizing to himself in hotel rooms after games when he texted a number he has memorized and pretended it didn’t mean anything.

He looks at the mug. Steam curls upward, delicate and pointless.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts, then stops. Doesn’t finish. Because he did mean to. He meant to date her. Meant to try. Meant to prove to himself and everyone watching that he could be the person they needed him to be. Golden boy. Perfect captain. Straight enough.

He remembers the first red carpet they walked together. Flashbulbs popping like fireworks. Her hand warm at his back. The way she leaned into him easily, naturally. He had felt proud. Protective. Grateful.

He had not felt the spark he keeps chasing elsewhere.

Rose exhales through her nose. Picks up the mug and sets it down again.

“Shane,” she says, and the kindness in her voice is unbearable.“You’re gay.”

The word lands in the space between them like a puck dropped on clean ice. Solid. Undeniable. He’s thought it a thousand times—more—turned it over in his mind until the edges wore smooth. But hearing it out loud, in her voice, in her apartment that smells like vanilla candles and the future he was supposed to want—

He nods. Once. Can’t speak.

There’s relief in it. That’s the worst part. Relief that someone else said it first. Relief that the ceiling didn’t cave in. Relief that she isn’t shouting.

“Okay,” Rose says.

Just that. Not dramatic. Not shattered. She leans back against the counter, arms crossed loosely over her chest. She’s still in her work clothes—blouse, pencil skirt, heels she kicked off by the door. She looks tired. He wonders how long she’s been tired. Wonders how many times she clocked the way his attention wandered at events. How often she noticed him flinch when strangers assumed.

“How long have you known?”

“I don’t know.” His voice comes out rough. He clears his throat. Tries again.

“A long time. Maybe always. I thought—” He stops. Starts over.

“I thought if I just—”

“Tried harder?” Rose finishes. There’s no venom in it. Just fact.

Shane looks at his hands. His knuckles are still healing from a fight in practice two days ago. Someone said something about his positioning. Someone else laughed. It wasn’t about this. It’s always about this. The way his shoulders are too tense. The way he overcorrects. The way he plays like he’s trying to outrun something.

“Yeah,” he says.

He thinks about hotel rooms in away cities. About rivalry that turned into something else somewhere around 2010, when hatred started tasting like heat and he let himself be pinned against a wall just to feel wanted without being watched. He thinks about how easy it is to want a man when the wanting lives in the dark.

Rose is quiet for a long moment. The kettle ticks as it cools. Outside, a car alarm goes off, then cuts short. Montreal in winter sounds like a city holding its breath.

“Is it—” She hesitates. Her jaw tightens, then releases. “Is it another hockey player?”

Shane’s head snaps up.

She’s watching him now, steady and careful. Not accusing. Just asking. Actress, yes—but she isn’t performing. Not here.

“No,” he says automatically. Then, because she deserves honesty and because lying is what got them here: “I don’t know. Maybe. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Rose says softly. “To you.”

He swallows. It matters in ways he doesn’t have language for. It matters that the first time he felt something close to love it came wrapped in rivalry and bruises. It matters that the only person who has ever made him feel entirely seen also makes him furious. It matters that he’s spent nine years pretending it’s just sex.

He doesn’t give her that. He can’t.

“I just thought I could…” He gestures helplessly between them. “Be normal.”

Rose’s mouth softens. 

“You are normal.”

He almost laughs. 

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” she says. “And you’re wrong.”

Silence settles again, heavier now but less sharp. The truth is in the room and it isn’t catastrophic. It’s just…there.

“I love you,” he says quietly. It feels important to say.

“I know,” she replies just as quietly.

He does love her. Just not the way he was supposed to. Not with the hunger that keeps him up at night. Not with the inevitability that makes his pulse spike at the sound of a certain name. He loved her like a teammate. Like a friend. Like someone he admired and wanted to protect from the ugliness of the world.

That was never going to be enough.

“I should’ve told you sooner.”

“Yes,” she says, and there’s the faintest edge of steel there now. Not cruel. Just honest. “You should have.”

He nods. Accepts it.

Rose pushes off the counter and steps forward, closing the space between them. She takes his hand. Her fingers are warm. Her grip is firm, grounding in a way that feels almost maternal and not at all romantic.

“Listen to me,” she says. “You are not broken. You’re not selfish. And you’re not a coward for being scared.”

He blinks hard. The word hits deeper than the others.

“I was scared,” he admits.

“Of what?”

“Everything.” The league. The sponsors. The headlines. The way locker rooms go quiet. The way boys look at you different when they think you’re looking back.

Rose squeezes his hand. “You don’t have to decide everything tonight. But you do have to stop lying to yourself.”

He nods because she’s right. Because she’s always been right. Because she saw it before he did and loved him anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time. Not frantic. Just grief-struck.

Rose shakes her head and steps closer, pulling him into a hug before he can brace for it. She fits under his chin easily. He wraps his arms around her out of instinct. It feels familiar. Safe. Wrong in a new, gentler way.

“I’m going to be your friend,” she says into his chest. “You don’t get to disappear on me because this is awkward.”

Despite everything, a huff of laughter escapes him.

“Okay.”

She pulls back, looks up at him, studies his face like she’s memorizing a new role.

“You deserve something that makes you feel alive,” she says. “Not something that looks good in photos.”

His chest aches at that. Because he knows the difference now.

She lets go. Steps back. Picks up the mug again and finally takes a sip, like they’ve simply finished discussing dinner plans instead of dismantling a future.

“Take care of yourself,” she says. “And if you don’t answer my texts later, I will hunt you down.”

He nods. “I know you will.”

When he reaches the door, he pauses. Looks back at her—barefoot in her perfect kitchen, wine-colored nails wrapped around a mug she never wanted.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

“For saying it first.”

Rose’s smile is small but steady. “Anytime.”

He leaves with the word echoing in his chest—not accusation, not shame. Gay. Solid and undeniable. And, for the first time, not entirely terrifying.

The apartment is cold when he gets back.

Shane drops his keys on the counter—black granite, nothing like Rose's, bought because it was on sale and didn't show stains—and stands in the kitchen he barely uses. The fridge hums. The heating kicks on with a rattle that's been getting worse for weeks. He should call the landlord. He won't.

He pulls out his phone. Opens his messages. Scrolls past the group chat with the guys (forty-three unread, mostly Hayden sending memes), past his mother's last text (call me when you can, love you), past the thread with Rose that now ends with her final message from this morning: see you tonight.

He hovers over Ilya's name for a beat too long.

The last message is from months ago, before he had run away because of a fucking tuna melt. A photo: Ilya at the Bears' practice facility, hair wet from a shower, grinning like an asshole because he'd just scored five goals in a scrimmage and needed Shane to know about it. The caption: you are slow today or always?

Shane had sent back a middle finger emoji and nothing else.

He stares at the screen. His thumb hovers over the keyboard. He could text. Could say—what? Broke up with Rose. I'm gay. I've been in love with you since I was nineteen and I ran because I didn't know what else to do.

He locks the phone. Tosses it on the couch.

The apartment is too quiet. He turns on the TV—some late-night recap show, hockey highlights he's already seen—and lets the noise fill the space. On screen, a commentator is breaking down the Bears' power play. Ilya's name comes up. Of course it does. Ilya's name always comes up.

Shane watches him move across the ice in slow-motion: deceptive speed, perfect edges, the kind of control that looks effortless because he's worked for it every day since he was six years old. The commentator calls it "natural talent." Shane knows better. Ilya's talent is stubbornness and spite and the refusal to let anyone tell him what he can't do.

The highlight cuts to Ilya scoring. Celly. Grin. The camera loves him. The league loves him. Shane—

Shane turns off the TV.

He sits on the couch in the dark and thinks about the fact that he just ended a three-year relationship and feels nothing but relief. Relief and guilt and the terrible, creeping certainty that he's known the truth for a long time and been too afraid to name it.

He's gay. He says it out loud, just to hear it. Just to see if it feels real.

"I'm gay."

The apartment doesn't answer. The fridge hums. The heating rattles. He says it again.

"I'm gay."

It doesn't feel like a revelation. It feels like something he's been carrying so long he forgot it had weight.

He leans back against the couch, closes his eyes, and thinks about Ilya. He shouldn't. He does anyway. Thinks about the CCM ad filming in summer of 2010, when they were both nineteen and stupid and had gone back to Ilya's cottage because Ilya's English was still shit and Shane's Russian was worse and somehow that made it easier to say things they couldn't say in their own languages. 

Thinks about the night they got drunk on terrible vodka and ended up in Ilya's bed, and how it was supposed to be a one-time thing, a mistake, something they'd never talk about.

Thinks about how it kept happening. Every summer. Every time their schedules aligned. Every time Shane told himself “this is the last time” and meant it and didn't.

Thinks about how he started dating Rose because he thought if he could just be normal, just be straight, Ilya would stop looking at him like he was waiting for Shane to figure something out.

He opens his eyes. Stares at the ceiling.

"I'm gay," he says one more time, quieter now. "And I'm fucked."

His phone buzzes on the couch cushion beside him.

He picks it up. Ilya's name on the screen for the first time in months, as if he had heard Shane thinking of him from hundreds of miles away and across international borders.

you watch game tonight? 

Shane stares at it for a long time. Too long. Then he types back:

Yeah. Nice goal.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. And disappear once more.  Shane's chest tightens. He locks the phone and sets it face-down on the coffee table.

He's not okay. He hasn't been okay in a long time.

But tomorrow he has practice. Tomorrow he has to show up and be Captain Shane Hollander, and that means fine, composed, unshakable. That means shoving everything else down where it belongs and pretending the last three years didn't just collapse under the weight of a truth he should have admitted a decade ago.

He gets up. Showers. Stands under the spray until the water runs cold. When he gets out, his phone has two new messages.

The first is from Rose: Thank you for being honest. I mean it.

The second is from Ilya: see you at all stars. 

Shane reads them both twice. Answers neither. He climbs into bed, pulls the blanket up to his chin, and stares at the dark. Sleep doesn't come.

When it finally does, he dreams about ice—clean and endless and empty—and wakes up with Ilya's name on his tongue.

⋆˙⟡♡🏒

The locker room smells like sweat and adhesive tape and the faint chemical burn of freshly sharpened skates.

Shane sits on the bench in front of his stall, hands loose between his knees, and waits for the noise to settle. It doesn't. Not really. Locker rooms never do—there's always someone chirping, someone retaping a stick, someone's phone buzzing with notifications they're pretending not to check. Background hum of men existing in proximity, comfortable in a way Shane has spent his entire career learning to fake.

Hayden is two stalls down, half-dressed, arguing with their backup goalie about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. Someone else is singing off-key. Someone else is scrolling Instagram with the volume up. Coach hasn't arrived yet. The energy is loose, post-practice lazy.

Shane clears his throat.

Nobody notices.

He tries again, louder this time. "Hey. Can I—can I say something?"

The room doesn't go silent all at once. It ebbs, like water draining. Hayden stops mid-sentence. The singing cuts off. Phones get pocketed. Guys turn, half-curious, half-annoyed at the interruption.

"What's up, Cap?" someone calls from the back.

Shane's mouth is dry. He should have practiced this. Should have written it down, rehearsed it in the mirror like a pre-game speech. He didn't. He woke up this morning and decided that if he waited any longer he'd lose his nerve entirely.

He stands. It feels too formal. He sits back down. Worse.

"I just—" His voice comes out steadier than he feels. "I wanted to tell you guys something. Before you hear it somewhere else."

Hayden is watching him now, expression unreadable. A few of the younger guys exchange glances. The room holds its breath without meaning to.

Shane looks at his hands. At the logo on the carpet between his feet. At anything but the faces waiting for him to continue.

"Rose and I broke up," he says. That part's easy. Public record, practically. She probably already told her publicist. "And the reason—the reason is that I'm gay."

He says it quickly. Like ripping off a bandage. Like taking a hit you see coming.

The silence that follows is so complete he can hear the hum of the overhead lights.

Nobody moves.

Shane forces himself to look up. To meet eyes. To prove he's not ashamed even though his heart is trying to crawl out through his ribs.

"I just thought you should know," he adds, and hates how small his voice sounds. "From me. Before—before it's a thing. I don’t plan on coming out publicly… I just thought you all should know."

More silence.

Then Hayden stands. Crosses the space between them in three strides and sits down next to Shane, close enough their shoulders brush. He doesn't say anything. Just sits there. Solid. Present.

It's enough to make Shane's throat tighten.

"Okay," says Gagnon, one of the older defensemen, after what feels like an hour. His voice is carefully neutral. "Thanks for telling us, Cap."

A few guys nod. Murmur agreement. It's the kind of polite you use when someone's told you something uncomfortable and you're not sure how to respond. The kind of polite that means nothing and everything.

"Yeah, man," someone else says. 

"Appreciate the honesty."

Shane nods. Tries to smile. It doesn't reach his eyes.

"Are we—are we good?" he asks, and hates himself for asking. Hates that he needs the reassurance. Hates that he already knows the answer won't matter because what people say in the moment and what they do later are rarely the same thing.

"Yeah," Drapeau says, his face doing something weird that Shane has never seen it do before. "We're good."

But his eyes slide away as he says it. Back to his phone. Back to his stall. Back to anything that isn't Shane's face.

The room starts moving again. Slowly. Guys pulling on shirts, lacing up shoes, packing gear with just a little too much focus. The conversation doesn't pick back up the way it was before. It's quieter now. Careful.

Shane stays seated. Hayden stays next to him.

"You okay?" Hayden asks, low enough that only Shane can hear.

"Yeah," Shane lies.

Hayden doesn't call him on it. Just bumps their shoulders together once and says, "I'm gonna grab food after this. You coming?"

"Maybe."

"That's a yes," Hayden decides. "I'm not asking."

Despite everything, Shane almost smiles.

Coach Theriault walks in then, clipboard in hand, already barking about tomorrow's practice schedule. The room snaps to attention the way it always does—conditioned response, muscle memory. Shane stands with everyone else. Listens with everyone else. Nods when he's supposed to nod.

Nobody looks at him differently. That's what he tells himself, anyway.

The first crack appears three days later.

Shane is in the film room with the rest of the leadership group, reviewing power play setups from their last game. Theriault has the footage paused on a frame where Shane's positioning is slightly off—half a step too far from the net, leaving a gap that Boston exploited.

"See that?" Coach says, tapping the screen with his pen. "That's lazy. That's you not paying attention."

It's a fair critique. Shane knows it. He nods, makes a note.

"You need to be sharper," Theriault continues. "Especially now."

The especially now hangs in the air like smoke.

Shane looks up. "What does that mean?"

Coach Theriault doesn't meet his eyes. "Just saying. We need you focused. All of you."

It's nothing. It's probably nothing.

But Comeau shifts in his seat. Someone coughs and the room feels smaller than it did five minutes ago.

Shane doesn't push it. He nods again, writes sharper in his notebook, and keeps his face blank.

When the meeting ends, Hayden catches his arm in the hallway.

"That was bullshit," Hayden says.

"It's fine."

"It's not."

Shane pulls his arm free, gentle but firm. 

"Let it go, Hayden."

"He's benching you more," Hayden says. "You notice that? You're getting fewer shifts."

Shane has noticed. Of course he's noticed. But noticing and naming are different things, and if he names it then it becomes real, and if it's real then he has to do something about it, and he doesn't know what to do.

"It's tactical," he says, echoing what their coach told him last week.

Hayden stares at him. 

"You don't actually believe that."

Shane doesn't answer. Can't.

"This is fucked," Hayden says quietly. "You know that, right?"

"I know." Shane's jaw tightens. "But what am I supposed to do? File a complaint? Make it a bigger deal than it already is?"

"Yes," Hayden says, immediate and certain.

"No." Shane shakes his head. "I just—I need to ride it out. It'll settle. People will get used to it."

Hayden looks like he wants to argue. Looks like he wants to grab Shane by the shoulders and shake him. But he doesn't. He just exhales hard through his nose and says, "If you change your mind—"

"I know," Shane says. "Thank you."

They stand there for a beat. The hallway is empty, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. From the rink, someone's running drills—the sharp crack of puck on boards echoing down the corridor.

"You coming to the bar tonight?" Hayden asks finally.

"No. I'm tired."

It's not a lie. He's exhausted in a way sleep won't fix.

Hayden nods like he expected that answer. "Text me if you need anything."

"I will."

He won't.

The second crack appears a week after that.

Shane is on the ice during a scrimmage, positioned in front of the net, when one of their enforcers—Renaud, a guy Shane has played with for four years—collides with him. Hard. The kind of hit that's borderline in practice, the kind you let slide because it's competitive and everyone's trying to prove something.

But Shane goes down harder than he should. His shoulder slams into the boards. He hears something pop.

"Fuck," he hisses, clutching his arm.

Renaud skates past without stopping. Doesn't check if he's okay. Doesn't offer a hand up.

Shane gets to his feet on his own. His shoulder screams. He ignores it.

Hayden skates over, face dark. "You good?"

"Fine."

"That was dirty."

"It was an accident," Shane says, even though they both know it wasn't.

He skates to the bench. Sits. Rotates his shoulder carefully, testing the range of motion. It hurts, but it's not dislocated. Not broken. Just bruised.

Coach Theriault glances at him. "You done?"

"No," Shane says. "I'm good."

"Then get back out there."

Shane gets back out there.

At the end of practice, Renaud is laughing with two other guys in the corner of the locker room. Shane catches his name in the conversation—doesn't catch the full sentence, but catches the tone. Catches the laughter that follows.

He keeps his head down. Pulls off his pads. Showers quickly, alone.

Hayden is waiting by his car when Shane finally leaves the facility.

"You can't keep doing this," Hayden says.

"Doing what?"

"Pretending everything's fine."

Shane unlocks his car. Tosses his bag in the backseat. "I'm not pretending."

"You're limping."

"I'm sore."

"Shane." Hayden's voice cracks, just slightly. "They're icing you out. You have to see that."

Shane does see it. He sees it in the way Comeau moved his gear away from Shane's stall last week. He sees it in the way guys stop talking when he walks into a room. He sees it in the way Coach Theriault frames every critique with especially now and focus and we need you sharper, like Shane's sexuality is a distraction he needs to manage.

He sees it. He just doesn't know what to do about it.

"I told you," he says finally. "I'm riding it out."

"Until what? Until they trade you? Until someone hurts you for real?"

Shane flinches. The word trade lands harder than Renaud’s hit.

"It's not going to come to that."

"You don't know that," Hayden says. He steps closer, drops his voice. "Talk to your agent. Talk to the union. Someone."

"And say what? That I have a feeling my team doesn't like me anymore because I’m gay? That's not actionable, Hayden. That's just—" He gestures helplessly. "It's just how it is."

Hayden stares at him for a long moment. Then he shakes his head, steps back.

"This is bullshit," he says again.

Shane doesn't disagree.

He gets in his car. Drives home. Sits in his apartment and ices his shoulder and tells himself it'll get better.

It doesn't get better.

⋆˙⟡♡🏒

The ice time doesn't come back.

Shane tracks it obsessively for two weeks—minutes per game, shifts per period, power play deployment. The numbers don't lie even when Coach does. He's down thirty percent from where he was a month ago. Olsson, who's slower and older and objectively less effective, is getting Shane's minutes.

He doesn't say anything. What would he say?

Hayden says it for him.

"This is insane," Hayden mutters during a home game against Toronto, third period, Shane benched for the fifth consecutive shift. "You should be out there."

Shane doesn't look at him. Keeps his eyes on the ice, jaw tight. "Coach knows what he's doing."

"Does he?"

On the ice, Olsson fumbles a pass and Toronto capitalizes, streaking toward their net. The crowd groans. Shane's grip tightens on his stick.

"I'm handling it," he says.

Hayden doesn't respond. Just stares at the side of Shane's face like he's trying to decode something written in a language he doesn't speak.

They lose 4-2. Shane was the only one who scored that game. 

In the post-game presser, a reporter asks Coach Theriault why Hollander's ice time has dropped so dramatically.

Coach Theriault doesn't blink. "Tactical adjustments. We're experimenting with different line combinations, seeing what works."

The reporter presses. "Hollander's Corsi is still one of the highest on the team. Is there a specific reason—"

"Next question," Coach says.

Shane watches the clip later that night on his phone, alone in his apartment, the blue light washing his face pale. He replays it three times. Studies Theriault's expression. The careful neutrality. The way he cuts the question off before it can become a pattern.

Shane sets the phone down. Stares at the ceiling. His shoulder still aches from Renaud's hit. He should get it looked at. He won't.

The locker room is worse.

It's not loud. That's the thing people don't understand about hostility in professional sports—it's rarely loud. Loud is actionable. Loud gets recorded, gets leaked, gets someone fired.

This is quieter.

Comeau moves his stall. Just shifts his gear two spots down one day, casual, like he needed more space. Now there's an empty stall between him and Shane. Then Gagnon moves too. Then someone else.

Shane's corner of the locker room becomes an island. Only Hayden’s stall was still next to his. 

He notices. He doesn't say anything.

Conversations stop when he walks in. Not abruptly—nothing so obvious. Just a subtle shift in tone, a trailing off, a pivot to safer topics. The weather. Last night's game. Someone's new car.

Nobody asks how he's doing. Nobody invites him to the bar after practice.

Hayden still does. Hayden always does.

"You coming tonight?" Hayden asks after a brutal practice where Shane was relegated to the fourth line for drills.

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Hayden hesitates. 

"A few of us are going to that new place on Rue Saint-Paul. You should—"

"I'm tired, Hayden."

It's not a lie. He's tired in a way that goes deeper than muscle fatigue. Tired of performing fine. Tired of pretending he doesn't notice. Tired of being the problem everyone's too polite to name.

Hayden nods slowly. 

"Okay. But if you change your mind—"

"I know."

After Hayden leaves, Shane sits in the empty locker room for twenty minutes, staring at the Voyageurs logo on the wall. The fleur-de-lis. The crossed sticks. Pride. Excellence. Brotherhood.

He showers. Dresses. Leaves.

In the parking lot, he sees Renaud and two other guys standing by Renaud's truck, laughing about something. Shane's name drifts across the cold air, too faint to catch context. Just his name. Then laughter.

Shane gets in his car. Drives home and oesn't think about it. He thinks about it all night.

⋆⋆˙⟡♡🏒

r/hockey

Posted by u/HabsFanatic87 • 2d ago

Anyone else notice Hollander's been benched more lately?

I've been watching every Voyageurs game this season and Hollander's ice time has dropped off a cliff in the last few weeks. He's barely getting 12 minutes a game now when he was averaging 20+ at the start of the season.

His stats are still solid—better than half the guys getting more minutes than him. Corsi's good, he's not making costly mistakes. So what gives?

Comments:

u/PuckProphet: Probably contract stuff. He's up for renewal next year, maybe they're shopping him?

u/MontrealMike: Or maybe he's just not playing well? Stats don't tell the whole story.

u/HabsFanatic87: But his stats DO tell a story. That's my point. He's producing. He's not the problem.

u/DefenseWins: Heard from a buddy who works at the arena that there's some locker room tension. No details, just that the vibe's off.

u/PuckProphet: Locker room issues would make sense. Hollander's always been kind of…intense. Maybe the guys are tired of it.

u/YzerPlan: "Intense" is a weird way to describe a guy who's been a model professional his entire career but okay

u/HockeyStats2024: If they trade him it's a huge mistake. He's still one of their best two-way forwards.

u/MontrealMike: Or maybe he's just washed and we're too sentimental to admit it

u/HabsFanatic87: He's 26. He's not washed.

u/DefenseWins: Age catches up with everyone. Just saying.

⋆˙⟡♡🏒

Shane doesn't read Reddit, but Hayden does.

"People are noticing," Hayden says the next day at practice, showing Shane the thread on his phone.

Shane glances at it and hands it back. 

"Let them notice."

"They're saying you're washed."

"I'm not washed."

"I know that. But if this keeps up—"

"It'll stop," Shane says. 

He doesn't believe it, but says it anyway.

Hayden looks at him for a long moment. Then he shoves his phone back in his pocket and skates away.

The third crack appears during a game against Boston.

Shane is on the ice—finally, mercifully—when a Bears’ winger comes at him hard along the boards. It's a clean hit, mostly. Legal. But Shane's already off-balance, and when he goes down, he goes down badly.

His knee twists and pain flares white-hot up his leg. He stays down longer than he should. The whistle blows. The trainer skates out.

"Can you stand?" the trainer asks.

"Yeah." Shane grits his teeth. Gets his skates under him. Tests the knee. It holds, just barely.

"You should come off."

"I'm fine."

The trainer looks skeptical but doesn't argue. Shane skates to the bench under his own power, jaw locked, every stride a lesson in controlled agony.

Coach Thriault glances at him. "You good?"

"Yeah."

"Then sit. You're done for the night."

Shane blinks. "What?"

"You're done," Coach Theriault repeats. "We can't risk further injury."

It's reasonable. It's probably the right call.

But Drapeau played through a shoulder injury last week. Gagnon played through a concussion two months ago—got chewed out for it, sure, but he played. Shane looks at the ice. At the game continuing without him. At the minutes he's not getting.

"I can play," he says.

"Not tonight."

Shane sits. Watches the rest of the game from the bench. His knee throbs. He ignores it.

They lose 3-1.

Afterward, in the locker room, Comeau makes a comment about "soft plays" and how "some guys just can't take a hit anymore."

He doesn't look at Shane when he says it. Doesn't have to.

Hayden's jaw tightens. He opens his mouth—

Shane catches his eye. Shakes his head once.

Hayden closes his mouth. But the look he gives Shane is somewhere between pity and fury, and Shane can't decide which one is worse.

⋆˙⟡♡🏒

@HockeyInsider • 3h

Hollander left tonight's game after taking a hit in the 2nd. Listed as "lower body injury." Didn't return. #GoVoyageurs

@MTLStats: Hollander's been on the injury report more this season than the last three combined. Wonder if age is finally catching up.

@VoyageursFan88: He's literally 26

@MTLStats: That's old in hockey years

@ShaneFan2009: Y'all are really acting like 26 is ancient??? He's in his prime

@HabsOrDie: Maybe it's not age. Maybe it's attitude. Heard there's issues in the room.

@ShaneFan2009: "Heard" from who??? Your ass???

@DefensiveMinded: Something's definitely off with him this season. You can see it in his play. Hesitant. Not himself.

@YzerPlan: Yeah because he's getting 12 minutes a game and his coach benches him for breathing wrong

@HabsOrDie: If he's got issues with the coach that's on him for not being a team player

@VoyageursFan88: You people are exhausting

⋆˙⟡♡🏒

Shane doesn't see the tweets. His agent does.

His phone rings at eleven PM, a familiar name on the screen.

"Hi, Mom."

"What's going on in Montreal?" 

Yuna's voice is clipped, professional. She's in manager mode, which means she's already run the numbers and doesn't like what they say.

Shane sits on his couch, ice pack on his knee, TV on mute. 

"What do you mean?"

"Your ice time is down. Your press is getting weird. And now you're injured."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. I'm seeing speculation online that you're getting traded."

Shane's stomach drops. 

"That's just Twitter."

"Twitter reflects sentiment, Shane. And the sentiment right now is that something's wrong." She pauses. "So I'm asking you: what's wrong?"

He could tell her. He should tell her. She's his mother, his manager, the person who's had his back since before he could skate.

But if he tells her, it becomes real. If it's real, she'll want to act. And if she acts, it escalates.

"Nothing's wrong," he says. "Just a rough patch."

Yuna is quiet for a beat too long. 

“You came out to the team.”

It’s not a question.

It lands heavy, flat, the way she says his name when he was twelve and tracking mud across the kitchen floor. Not angry. Certain.

Shane closes his eyes.

“How did you—”

He stops himself. It doesn’t matter how. It never matters how with her. Yuna has always known things before he was ready to say them out loud. She knew when he’d broken his wrist in juniors before the trainer confirmed it. Knew when he was playing through a concussion because he sounded wrong on the phone. Knew when he was pretending he wasn’t in love with hockey anymore, just tired.

Shane wasn’t ready to come out to his mother. She wasn’t supposed to know. Not now, not yet. Maybe not ever. He had pictured that conversation a hundred different ways—controlled, planned, maybe years from now when his career felt steadier. When it wouldn’t feel like stepping off a cliff.

He feels his breath hitch and his heart speed up, the old panic rising fast and familiar. It’s different facing a locker room. Different facing reporters. His mother is something else entirely.

“I’m your mother and your manager,” Yuna says evenly. “You think I don’t have people who tell me things?”

There’s no accusation in it. Just fact.

“Who told you?” His voice sounds thinner than he’d like.

“Doesn’t matter,” she replies. “What matters is whether they’re handling it properly.”

They.

The team. The front office. The league. The machinery that built him and branded him and turned him into Captain Shane Hollander.

“They’re handling it fine.”

He hears the defensive edge and hates it. He sounds like a kid insisting he’s not hurt when his knee is bleeding through his jeans.

“Shane, baby.” Her voice softens, just slightly. That one word—baby—slips under his armor like a blade. “Are they?”

He swallows.

He wants to say yes. Wants to believe it. Wants to cling to the version of the world where his teammates slap his back and say it doesn’t change anything and mean it. Where the coach doesn’t hesitate a fraction too long before calling on him. Where the locker room doesn’t feel subtly rearranged.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

It feels like stepping barefoot onto thin ice.

There had been silence after he said it. Not hostile. Not loud. Just…still. A few nods. A joke from someone trying too hard to keep it light. One guy clapped him on the shoulder and said, “We’ve got you, Cap.” Another wouldn’t meet his eyes.

He doesn’t know which one hurt more.

Yuna exhales slowly on the other end of the line, controlled, measured. He can picture her at the kitchen table back home, glasses perched low on her nose, legal pad already out. She approaches everything like a campaign.

“Okay,” she says. “I’m going to make some calls.”

“Don’t—”

The word comes out sharper than he means it to. Fear, not anger.

“I’m not going to blow anything up,” she says, calm and steady. “I’m just going to…gauge interest. See what’s out there.”

“Interest in what?”

“In you,” she says simply. “In case we need options.”

Options.

The word settles heavy in his chest. It tastes like relocation. Like headlines. Like packing up his apartment and starting over in a city that doesn’t know him yet. Like being the first openly gay captain somewhere else, instead of just…him here.

“I don’t want to leave Montreal,” Shane says.

His voice cracks on the last word and he hates that it does. Montreal is home. It’s where he grew up into himself. Where the fans chant his name. Where the ice feels familiar under his skates. It’s where he’s built everything.

“I know, honey,” Yuna says gently. “But if they’re pushing you out—”

“They’re not.”

He sits up straighter in bed, jaw tightening. His knee throbs under the ice pack but he barely feels it.

“Shane—”

“They’re not,” he repeats, firmer now. He needs it to be true. “I just need to ride it out. It’ll settle.”

He doesn’t know if he’s talking to her or to himself.

Yuna is quiet for a beat. He can hear her breathing. Can hear the restraint in it. She wants to fix this. To strategize. To shield him from consequences he’s only just begun to feel.

She doesn’t argue. But she doesn’t agree either.

“Call me if anything changes,” she says finally.

“I will.”

There’s a pause. The kind that used to mean he was about to confess a bad grade or a fight at school.

“Did you tell Dad?” he asks, softer now. He doesn’t specify about what. He doesn’t have to.

There’s so much wrapped up in that question. His father’s quiet pride. The way he talks about “my boy” with that steady, unshakeable certainty. The way he still sends articles about leadership and grit.

“No,” Yuna says. “And I won’t unless you want me to.”

The relief that floods him is immediate and complicated. Gratitude, sharp and aching. Shame, too, that he’s relieved.

He remembers why he loves his mom so much. Because she never takes his story out of his hands. Because she lets him move at his own pace, even when she’s already ten steps ahead.

“Okay,” he says.

“Shane,” she adds, softer now. Not manager. Not strategist. Just his mother. “I’m proud of you.”

His throat closes.

“For what?”

“For telling the truth.”

He doesn’t trust himself to answer that. He swallows, nods even though she can’t see it.

“Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight, baby.”

He hangs up before his voice can betray him.

The apartment feels too quiet after. He sets the phone down carefully on the nightstand, like it might explode if he moves too fast. Adjusts the ice pack on his knee, the cold seeping into skin already numb.

For a second he just sits there.

Then something in him gives.

The first sob catches him off guard—sharp, humiliating. He clamps a hand over his mouth like he’s afraid someone might hear, even though he’s alone. His shoulders shake anyway. The tears come hot and fast, sliding down into his collarbone, soaking into the fabric of his T-shirt.

He hasn’t cried like this in years. Not after losses. Not after injuries. Not even after Rose.

This is different.

This is grief for the version of himself he tried so hard to be. For the years spent splitting himself in half. For the relief of finally saying it and the terror of what that means. For the boy who knew at fifteen and decided to outrun it instead.

On the TV, a late-night highlight reel plays silently. Boston’s winning goal. The camera cuts to the bench—Shane sitting there, helmet still on, watching the red light flash behind him.

He looks composed. Still. Captain-like.

He looks alone.

Shane reaches for the remote with unsteady fingers and turns it off.

The room goes dark.

He lets himself cry until there’s nothing left but the quiet hum of the heater and the ache in his chest where something finally, finally broke open.

Two days later, Hayden corners him in the parking garage after practice.

"We need to talk," Hayden says.

"I'm tired."

"Yeah, well, I'm pissed." Hayden steps in front of Shane's car, blocking the driver's side door. "So we're talking."

Shane sighs. Sets his bag down. "What?"

"Drapeau made a comment in the locker room today."

"Hayden—"

"About you. About—" Hayden's jaw works. "About keeping away from the showers when you're around."

The words hit like a punch.

Shane's face goes carefully blank. "Okay."

"Okay?" Hayden stares at him. "Okay? That's all you've got?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to be angry! I want you to report it! I want you to do literally anything other than stand there and take it!"

"And then what?" Shane's voice is low, controlled. "I report it. They investigate. Drapeau says he was joking. Everyone says they didn't hear anything. It's my word against his. And even if they believe me, what changes? They give him a slap on the wrist. He resents me more. The team resents me more. And I'm still the guy who can't take a joke."

Hayden's expression cracks. "So you just…what? Let them do this to you?"

"I don't have another option."

"Yes, you do. You could—"

"I could what, Hayden?" Shane's composure finally fractures. "I could fight back and make myself even more of a target? I could file complaints and become the guy who makes everything about his sexuality? I could demand they treat me fairly and watch them find a hundred other reasons why they're not?"

His voice is shaking now. He stops. Breathes.

"I'm trying to survive this," he says quietly. "That's all I'm doing. Surviving until it stops being news."

Hayden looks at him like he's watching something break in real time.

"This isn't right," Hayden says.

"I know."

"You deserve better than this."

"I know."

"Then why—"

"Because knowing doesn't change it." Shane picks up his bag and opens his car door. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. I do. But I need you to let it go."

Hayden stares at him. "I can't."

"Then don't do it where I can see."

Shane gets in his car. Starts the engine.

Through the windshield, he watches Hayden stand there for a long moment—hands in his pockets, shoulders tight, face twisted with something Shane doesn't have the capacity to name.

Then Hayden turns and walks away.

Shane drives home and parks. He sits in the car for twenty minutes before he can make himself go inside.

That night, alone in his apartment, he opens his texts.

Scrolls to Ilya's name.

The last message is still the one from a week ago: see you at all stars

Shane stares at it. Thumb hovers over the keyboard.

He types: I need

Deletes it.

Types: Can we talk?

Deletes it.

Types: I miss you

Deletes it.

Locks his phone. Sets it face-down on the coffee table.

He doesn't call.

⋆˙⟡♡🏒

Thread: What's going on with Shane Hollander?

Posted by HabsLifer99

Serious question—what is happening with Hollander this season? His ice time has been slashed, he's been healthy-scratched twice now, and the team's not even trying to hide the fact that he's being phased out.

I've been watching this team for 20 years and I've never seen a captain treated like this. What am I missing?

Reply by MontrealHockeyGuy: Contract dispute, probably. He wants more money, management doesn't want to pay.

Reply by PuckNerd2024: Or maybe he's just not playing well? Advanced stats aren't everything.

Reply by HabsLifer99: His stats are fine. Better than fine. This isn't about performance.

Reply by AnonymousInsider: Heard from someone close to the org that there's "culture fit" issues. Whatever that means.

Reply by DefendTheBlue: Culture fit = management speak for "we don't like him"

Reply by PuckNerd2024: Or it means he's a locker room cancer and they're trying to move him quietly

Reply by HabsLifer99: Shane Hollander has been a model professional for a decade. Calling him a locker room cancer is insane.

Reply by AnonymousInsider: All I know is what I heard. Take it for what it's worth.

Reply by YzermenForever: If they trade him they're idiots. He's still elite.

Reply by MontrealHockeyGuy: Elite players get traded all the time if they don't fit the system

Reply by HabsLifer99: He's literally been in this system for 8 years

Reply by DefendTheBlue: Something stinks here and it's not Hollander

⋆˙⟡♡🏒

Shane doesn't read forums either.

But late that night, unable to sleep, he googles his own name. The search results are a mixed bag. Speculation. Trade rumors. Anonymous sources claiming locker room issues. A few supportive comments from fans. Mostly noise.

He closes the browser. Stares at the dark.

His phone buzzes.

Hayden: I'm sorry for earlier. But I'm not sorry for being angry. You shouldn't have to live like this.

Shane reads it three times. He doesn't respond, turns off his phone and lies in the dark and thinks about the difference between surviving and living, and whether he remembers how to do the latter.

The comment happens in the locker room on a Tuesday.

Shane is at his stall, retaping his stick—methodical, meditative, the kind of busywork that keeps his hands occupied and his mind blank. The room is loud with post-practice energy. Someone's blasting music from a Bluetooth speaker. Someone else is arguing about the best poutine in Montreal. Normal. Fine.

Then Couillard—a fourth-liner, twenty-three, all ego and no filter—says it.

"Yo, Pike, you gonna shower today or you scared Hollander's gonna check you out?"

The room doesn't go silent. That's the thing. The room keeps moving. A few guys laugh—not cruel, just uncomfortable, the kind of laughter that means “I heard it but I'm not responsible for it.”

Shane's hands still on the tape. He doesn't look up and doesn't react.

Hayden does.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

The music doesn't stop, but the conversation does. Hayden is standing now, still half in his gear, face dark.

Couillard grins, playing it off. "What? I'm just joking, man. Relax."

"Say it again," Hayden says. His voice is low. Dangerous.

"Dude, it's not that deep—"

"Say. It. Again."

Couillard's grin falters. He glances around the room, looking for backup. A few guys are suddenly very interested in their phones. Bouchard is smirking in the corner but doesn't say anything.

"It was a joke," Couillard says, defensive now.

"It wasn't funny."

"Jesus, Pike, I wasn't even talking about you—"

Hayden takes a step forward. "You think that makes it better?"

Shane stands. Crosses the space between them. Puts a hand on Hayden's chest—light, grounding.

"Hayden," he says quietly. "Let it go."

Hayden's jaw works. He doesn't take his eyes off Marchand. "He doesn't get to—"

"Let it go," Shane repeats.

For a long moment, Hayden doesn't move. Then he exhales hard through his nose, steps back. Shrugs Shane's hand off.

"You're a piece of shit," Hayden says to Couillard. Not loud. Just factual.

Then he grabs his bag and walks out.

The room is quiet for exactly three seconds. Then someone turns the music back up. Conversation resumes. Couillard mutters something under his breath that Shane doesn't catch. Doesn't want to catch.

Shane finishes taping his stick. Showers. Leaves.

In the parking lot, Hayden is leaning against his car, arms crossed, face still tight with anger.

Shane stops a few feet away. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yeah, I did."

"It just makes it worse."

"For who?" Hayden looks at him. "For you? Or for them?"

Shane doesn't have an answer for that.

"He's an asshole," Hayden says. "Someone needed to tell him."

"And now he resents me more. And everyone else thinks I can't fight my own battles."

"You shouldn't have to fight this battle at all."

Shane's chest tightens. He looks away. "I know."

They stand there in silence for a beat. The parking garage is cold, echoing faintly with the sound of cars on the street below. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.

"Come get a drink with me," Hayden says finally.

"I'm not in the mood."

"I don't care. You're coming anyway."

Shane almost argues. Doesn't have the energy. "Fine."

The bar is small, dark, the kind of place that caters to locals and doesn't care about hockey. Hayden picks a booth in the back, orders two beers without asking what Shane wants.

They sit in silence for the first ten minutes. Just drinking. Not talking. Hayden scrolling his phone. Shane staring at the grain of the table like it holds answers.

Then Hayden sets his phone down. Looks at Shane.

"This is wrong," he says.

Shane takes a sip of his beer. Doesn't respond.

"I'm serious," Hayden continues. "What they're doing to you—it's fucked. You know that, right?"

"Yeah."

"Do you?" Hayden leans forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're just…letting it happen."

"What do you want me to do, Hayden?" Shane's voice is flat. Tired. 

"I came out. I was honest. I did what everyone says you're supposed to do, and this is what happened. So what now? I file a complaint? I make it a bigger deal? I prove everyone right that I'm a distraction?"

"You're not a distraction."

"They think I am."

"Then they're wrong."

Shane laughs, bitter and short. "Doesn't matter if they're wrong. They're the ones with power."

Hayden stares at him. "You're the captain."

"Not for long."

The words hang in the air, heavier than Shane meant them to be.

Hayden's expression shifts. "What does that mean?"

Shane shrugs. "My mom’s making calls. Seeing what's out there. In case."

"In case what?"

"In case they trade me."

"They're not going to trade you."

"They might."

"Shane—"

"I'm a liability now, Hayden." Shane sets his beer down, harder than necessary. "I'm the guy who makes sponsors nervous. The guy who makes the locker room uncomfortable. The guy who can't just shut up and play hockey without making it political."

"You didn't make it political. They did."

"Doesn't matter. I'm still the problem."

Hayden runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "This is insane. You're one of the best players on the team. They can't just—"

"They can," Shane interrupts. "And they will. That's how this works. You think I'm the first guy this has happened to? I'm just the first one stupid enough to say it out loud."

Hayden opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"I hate this," he says finally.

"Yeah," Shane says. "Me too."

They drink in silence for a while. The bar fills up around them—couples on dates, groups of friends, people laughing and loud and unburdened by the weight of things unsaid. Shane watches them and feels like he's looking through glass.

"Do you regret it?" Hayden asks eventually. "Coming out?"

Shane considers the question. Turns it over. Tastes it.

"No," he says. "I regret that it matters. But I don't regret saying it."

Hayden nods slowly. "Good."

"Doesn't make it easier."

"I know."

Another silence. Longer this time.

Then Hayden says, quiet and careful, "Is there someone?"

Shane looks up. "What?"

"You said it doesn't matter if it's another hockey player. But is there? Someone you're—" Hayden gestures vaguely. "Someone it's about?"

Shane's throat tightens. He should lie. Should deflect. Should do what he's been doing for nine years and shove it down where it can't be named.

Instead, he says, "Maybe."

Hayden waits.

"It's complicated," Shane adds.

"Everything about you is complicated."

Despite himself, Shane huffs a laugh. "Yeah."

"Do they know?"

"I don't know. Probably. I'm not exactly subtle."

"Are you together?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." Shane scrubs a hand over his face. "We've been…something…for a long time. But it's not—it's never been something we talk about. It just is."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

Hayden takes a long sip of his beer. "Do you love them?"

The question hits like a slap shot to the chest.

Shane stares at his hands. At the bottle. At anything but Hayden's face.

"Yeah," he says finally. Quiet. Honest. "I do."

"Does he know?"

Shane's head snaps up. "I didn't say—"

"You didn't have to." Hayden's expression is soft. Not pitying. Just understanding. "Does he know?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because—" Shane stops. Starts over. "Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And if it's real, I have to do something about it. And I don't know how to do something about it without losing everything else."

"You might lose everything anyway."

"I know."

"So what's the difference?"

Shane doesn't have an answer for that either.

They finish their beers. Order another round. Don't talk about it anymore.

But later, when they're leaving—when Hayden is calling them both an Uber because neither of them should drive—Hayden says, "For what it's worth, I think you should tell him."

"Why?"

"Because you deserve to be loved by someone who knows they're doing it."

Shane's chest aches at that. He nods because he doesn't trust his voice. The Uber pulls up. They climb in. Hayden gives the driver Shane's address first.

When they pull up to Shane's building, Hayden catches his arm before he gets out.

"Hey," Hayden says. "I meant what I said. This is wrong. What they're doing to you. And I'm not going to stop being pissed about it just because you want me to."

Shane manages a small, tired smile. "I know."

"Good."

Shane gets out. Watches the car pull away. Then he goes inside, climbs the stairs to his apartment, and sits on his couch in the dark.

He pulls out his phone. Opens his messages. Scrolls to Ilya's name.

He types:  You awake?

Sends it before he can second-guess.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

always. you ok?

Shane stares at the message. At the concern packed into two words and a question mark.

He types: Can I call you?

The dots appear again. Disappear. Appear.

yes

Shane’s finger hovers over the call button.

He’s been staring at Ilya’s name for a full minute now. The screen glows in the dim living room, reflecting faintly against the window. Outside, the city hums. Inside, everything feels suspended.

The last time they spoke was months ago.

The last time they spoke, they were tangled in Ilya’s sheets, breathless and reckless and softer than they’d ever allowed themselves to be. The last time they spoke, Shane had said Ilya instead of Rozanov—said it like something fragile, something precious. And Ilya had answered with Shane, not Hollander, not Captain, not rival.

Just Shane.

It had felt like stepping off a ledge and discovering the ground didn’t disappear.

They’d been closer that night than ever before. Not just skin. Not just heat and rivalry and teeth. It had been slower. Quieter. Their foreheads pressed together afterward, breathing the same air. Ilya’s hand warm and absentminded at the back of Shane’s neck. No jokes. No sharp edges.

Too intimate, too real. Shane had left before sunrise.

He’d mumbled something about practice. About travel. About needing to go. Ilya hadn’t stopped him. Had just watched him from the bed, eyes dark and unreadable.

Two weeks later, Shane was on a red carpet with Rose Landry, hand at her waist, smiling for cameras.

They hadn’t spoken since. Until now. His thumb shifts, almost presses call—

Then his phone rings. Ilya’s name lights up the screen.

For a split second Shane just stares at it, heart kicking hard against his ribs. The choice is gone. The universe has decided for him.

He answers on the third ring.

“Hey,” he says.

There’s a faint rustle on the other end. Then Ilya’s voice—rough, low, sleep-warm. Familiar in a way that feels almost painful.

“Hey.” A beat. “What is wrong?”

Shane swallows.

Of course that’s the first thing he asks. Not hello. Not why are you calling after months of silence. Just what’s wrong.

“Nothing. I just—” His voice falters. He stares at the ceiling like it might steady him. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full. Thick with everything they didn’t say the last time. With the way Shane pulled away first. With the knowledge that Ilya watched him go.

Then, softer, “Okay.”

There’s no accusation in it. No demand. Just acceptance.

They don’t talk about Montreal. Don’t talk about the locker room or the All-Star roster or the headlines that have been circling quietly since he told the team. They don’t talk about Rose. Ilya doesn’t know. As far as he’s concerned, Shane is still dating her. Still publicly hers.

Shane doesn’t correct that. They talk about nothing.

Ilya complains about breaking in new skates. Says they’re too stiff, that he misses the old pair. Shane teases him about being dramatic. Ilya scoffs.

Shane mentions a movie he watched last week, something artsy and slow. Ilya says it sounds boring. Shane says he has terrible taste. Ilya says, “Yes, I know. I sleep with you, remember?”

The joke lands softer than it used to. There’s no bite to it. Just history.

They argue about whether Cincinnati has good Thai food. Ilya insists it doesn’t. Shane argues on principle, even though he’s never been there.

It’s easy. Familiar. Safe.

Shane lies back on the couch, phone pressed to his ear, and lets his eyes drift shut. He listens to Ilya complain about his coach’s new defensive system—too conservative, too cautious, no trust in instinct. The cadence of his voice is steady, grounding. It settles into Shane’s chest like warmth.

He remembers that night—how Ilya’s voice had sounded when he said Shane against his mouth. How it wasn’t sharp or mocking. How it had almost been…reverent.

He had run from that.

Shane stares into the dark, phone burning a small rectangle of light against his cheekbone. Around him, the apartment is still, noiseless except for the hum of the fridge, the occasional shudder of a radiator pipe. On the other end of the line, Ilya’s breathing is a soft, human static. The city outside is a distant, snow-muffled presence, but in here, the silence is absolute.

“You sure you are okay?” Ilya says, voice tentative now. The teasing is gone, replaced by something else—worry, maybe, or just the desire not to hang up.

“Yeah,” Shane says, and recognizes, as he says it, the hollowness of it. Even to his own ears, it sounds like a script. A thing learned by rote.

There’s a pause. Not the quick, annoyed silence Ilya used to give him when he thought he was being an idiot, but a longer, weighted one. Shane imagines him sprawled in bed, sheets kicked off, hair sticking up in every direction. Knuckles pressed to his jaw, maybe, the way Ilya does when he’s thinking hard but doesn’t want to seem like he’s thinking at all. It’s so vivid, for a second Shane has to close his eyes, just to make the image go away.

“You are bad liar, Hollander,” Ilya says, finally. But it’s not sharp; it’s almost gentle.

“Yeah,” Shane admits, sighing. He rolls onto his back, stares at the uneven texture of the ceiling. “I know.”

The conversation drifts. They talk about the stupid things: the cold, the way the ice at the practice rink is always shitty in the afternoons, whether or not Shane will ever grow out his hair again now that he doesn’t have to please the league’s PR people. Ilya tells a story about his backup goalie getting locked out of his car at 3 a.m., then segues into a description of what he’s cooking tonight (“I make real Russian soup—none of this instant packet shit, okay?”), and Shane listens, lets the sound of Ilya’s voice linger in the air, the vowels thick and familiar.

But even as they talk, something is shifting underneath. A current pulling at the edges, drawing them somewhere neither is willing to name. Shane feels it every time there’s a lull—every time Ilya’s words slow and trail off, as if expecting Shane to fill the silence.

After a while, Ilya says, “You call me after months, at midnight. And you say nothing is wrong.”

The words aren’t an accusation. They’re flat, unadorned. An observation. Ilya never was the type to dance around the obvious.

Shane can feel the heat rising up his neck, the way it always does when he’s been caught. He wants to say nothing, just let the silence eat the rest of the call, but he can’t. Not with Ilya. The whole point of this—of all of it—was that, with Ilya, he could be something close to honest.

He tries to swallow but his throat is dry.

“I just—” He falters, grip tightening on the phone. “I just needed…someone who knows me.”

It’s the truest thing he’s said all night, and it hangs there, as bright and vulnerable as a nerve.

On the other end, Ilya doesn’t say anything for a heartbeat. Two.

Then, softer, “I know you.”

He says it like a promise, or maybe a confession.

Shane props his elbows on his knees, brings a hand to his face. The words keep echoing. He pictures Ilya, remembers the way he used to say Shane’s name when they were alone—not as a weapon, not as a joke, but like it was something fragile and real. Something worth holding onto.

Shane wants to say I know you, too. Wants to say, I miss you. Wants to say, I don’t know how to do this by myself. But the words are too big, too sharp, and he’s never been good at letting himself bleed in front of other people.

Instead, he says nothing. He breathes, shallow and careful, and lets Ilya fill the space.

“Do you want me to come to Montreal?” Ilya asks.

The question is sudden, direct. It throws Shane off-balance; he’s not sure he heard it right. “What?”

There’s a rustle—a shift of sheets, maybe. “We play you in three weeks. After All-Star.”

Shane’s heart stutters. He knows the schedule by heart; he’d seen the date circled months ago, and tried not to think about what it might mean.

“I come sooner, if you need,” Ilya says, softer this time. “Not for…for hockey. For you.”

The offer is raw. Unpackaged. No bravado. No self-protective edge. Just Ilya, unfiltered, holding out a hand.

For a second, all Shane can do is listen to the white noise of the connection. Ilya isn’t the type to say things he doesn’t mean. He never was.

Shane thinks about what it would be like: Ilya in Montreal, in his space, taking up all the air and most of the attention. He thinks about the way Ilya would laugh at his record collection, or critique the way Shane makes tea. About how easy it would be, to fall back into old patterns, to let Ilya fill the empty places Shane has been pretending don’t exist.

He wants it. God, he wants it so badly.

But he’s also afraid—afraid that if he lets Ilya back in, it’ll make everything worse. That it’ll be harder, not easier, to go back to being just Captain Hollander. That it’ll make all the things he’s trying to hold together break apart, just a little bit faster.

He tries to find a way to say no, but the word won’t come. Instead, he says, “It’s probably not a good idea.”

There’s a pause, then a quiet, “Maybe not. But I come if you say.”

Shane laughs, and it cracks in the middle. “Why are you like this?”

Ilya doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

The conversation slows. Ilya asks about Shane’s family, about his little cousin and whether he’s still “tiny Canadian bastard” or if he’s grown yet. Shane asks about Svetlana, about her skating, about whether she’s still making Ilya drive her to the rink at five in the morning. They talk about everything except the thing that matters. Shane finds himself relaxing, just a little, in the comfort of it.

But even as they joke and snipe and slip back into old rhythms, the undercurrent is there, insistent. It’s in the way Ilya’s voice softens at unexpected moments, in the way he says Shane’s name, in the way he always seems to be more present than anyone else in Shane’s life.

Finally, when the hour has stretched out and the city is mostly asleep, Ilya says, “You remember my old apartment in Boston? Before house?”

Shane does. He remembers the way it smelled—like strong coffee and fabric softener and something uniquely Ilya. He remembers the thin walls and the ancient radiator that clanged all night and the way the whole place seemed to vibrate with energy, even when Ilya wasn’t home.

“Yeah,” he says, before he can stop himself.

“You were happy there,” Ilya says. “I liked seeing you happy.”

Shane swallows. “I don’t remember being happy.”

“I do,” Ilya says simply.

The honesty of it is a punch. Shane’s eyes sting.

He’s quiet for a long time. Then, “Ilya?”

“Da?”

“Thank you. For answering.”

He can hear Ilya smile through the phone. “Always. You know this.”

Shane nods, even though Ilya can’t see him. “Yeah. I know.”

They don’t say goodbye. They never do. The call just ends, and the room is suddenly much too quiet, like the world’s been turned down half a notch.

Shane stares at the phone in his hand until the screen goes black. He sets it on the coffee table, gets up, paces the length of his living room twice. He tries to focus on the stuff he can control—the next day’s training schedule, what he’ll say to management when they inevitably call him in for another “chat,” whether he’ll ever be able to sleep through the night again without waking up in a panic.

But the only thing he can think about is Ilya’s voice. The way it sounded in the dark, softer than a secret.

He sits down hard on the couch, elbows on knees, and lets the memory of it wash over him.

He remembers the feel of Ilya’s house under his palms. The weight of him. The way saying each other’s first names felt like crossing a line they’d both pretended didn’t exist.

He remembers leaving.

If Ilya comes to Montreal now—if Shane lets him cross that distance—there’s no pretending it’s casual anymore. No pretending it’s just rivalry and convenience and heat.

It would mean something.

And Ilya doesn’t even know that Rose is gone. That the carefully constructed illusion Shane built to replace him has already collapsed.

“You don’t have to—” Shane starts.

“I know I don’t have to,” Ilya interrupts, gentle but firm. “I’m asking if you want me to.”

The question lands deeper than anything else tonight. Do you want me to.

Shane wants it so badly it aches. Wants Ilya in his space, in his bed, in his kitchen. Wants to stop running. Wants to say your name and not feel like he’s confessing a crime. Wants to tell him about Rose. About the team. About how terrified he is.

Wants to say I love you and not take it back.

But he remembers the look on Ilya’s face that morning. The quiet way he let him leave. He remembers how easily he stepped into Rose’s world instead.

He doesn’t trust himself not to run again.

“I’m okay,” Shane says, the lie tasting metallic. “Really. I just needed to talk.”

Ilya doesn’t push.

Just a soft, “Okay. But if you change mind—”

“I know.”

They stay on the phone another twenty minutes.

Talking about nothing. About travel schedules and bad hotel coffee and who’s going to win the skills competition. Their voices overlap sometimes. They fall into old rhythms without thinking.

Underneath it all is something unspoken and steady. He stares at the dark ceiling and thinks about the way Ilya said, I know you. And for the first time all night, he believes it.

When they finally hang up, Shane sits in the dark and thinks about Hayden's words: “You deserve to be loved by someone who knows they're doing it.”

He thinks about the fact that Ilya offered to come. No questions asked. Just: “Do you need me?”

He thinks about how close he came to saying yes. Then he sets his phone down, climbs into bed, and doesn't sleep until the sky starts to gray.

The next day at practice, Couillard doesn't look at him.

Renaud smirks but doesn't say anything.

Hayden skates up to Shane during drills and bumps his shoulder. "You good?"

"Yeah."

"Liar."

"Yeah."

Hayden grins, quick and sharp. "That's my captain."

It's a small thing. Barely anything. But it's enough to get Shane through the day.

⋆˙⟡♡🏒

All-Stars weekend in Tampa feels like a performance Shane no longer knows how to give.

The hotel is overrun with media, sponsors, fans wearing jerseys from every team in the league. The lobby buzzes with the kind of forced energy that comes from putting too many egos in one building and telling them to smile for the cameras. Shane checks in, gets his room key, and immediately wants to leave.

His phone has seventeen unread texts. Three from his mother (call me, we need to talk strategy), six from various reporters requesting interviews, two from teammates back in Montreal that he doesn't open, and one from Hayden: don't do anything stupid this weekend. 

Shane doesn't respond to any of them.

He takes the elevator to his floor, finds his room, and stands in the doorway for a long moment, staring at the generic art on the walls, the crisp white bedding, the minibar he won't touch.

He closes the door. Sits on the edge of the bed. Checks his phone again.

No messages from Ilya.

Which is fine. Expected, even. Ilya doesn't text before they see each other at these things—he just shows up, loud and inevitable, like weather.

Shane sets his phone down. Showers. Changes into something presentable for the evening's sponsor event. Stares at himself in the mirror and practices the smile he'll need to wear for the next three days.

It doesn't reach his eyes. It never does anymore.

He sees Ilya for the first time at the welcome reception.

Shane is nursing a ginger ale (Schweppes, which has nothing on Canada Dry, but beggars can’t be choosers) and nodding along to a conversation he's not really part of—two Western Conference guys talking about their golf games, a topic Shane has no interest in and even less knowledge of—when he feels it. That shift in the air. The prickle at the back of his neck that means Ilya Rozanov has entered a room.

He doesn't turn around. Doesn't need to.

Thirty seconds later, Ilya's voice cuts through the noise, "Hollander! You get shorter every time I see you."

Shane turns. Ilya is standing ten feet away, grinning like an asshole, surrounded by a small crowd of players who are already laughing at whatever he said before Shane tuned in. He's in a suit—dark, well-tailored, tie slightly loosened because Ilya has never met a dress code he couldn't subtly disrespect. His hair is longer than it was last time. He looks good.

He always looks good.

"Rozanov," Shane says, flat. "You got louder."

"Is compliment."

"It's not."

Ilya's grin widens. He says something in Russian—fast, probably insulting—and the guys around him laugh even though half of them definitely don't speak the language.

Shane's chest tightens. He wants to cross the room. Wants to close the distance, grab Ilya by the tie, and drag him somewhere private. Wants to stop performing.

Instead, he raises his soda in a mock toast and turns back to the golf conversation. He feels Ilya's eyes on him for the rest of the night.

⋆˙⟡♡🏒

They don't talk. Not really.

There are too many people, too many cameras, too many obligations. Shane does his media rounds—answers questions about Montreal's season (fine), his conditioning (fine), his expectations for the game (fine, fine, fine). Every reporter wants to know if the reduced ice time is affecting his confidence. Shane smiles and says it's just tactical adjustments.

No one believes him. He doesn't care.

By the time the reception ends, Shane is exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with physical effort. He skips the after-party. Goes back to his room. Orders room service he doesn't eat.

He's half-asleep on top of the covers, still in his dress shirt and slacks, when someone knocks.

Shane frowns. Checks his phone. 11:47 PM.

He drags himself off the bed, crosses to the door, checks the peephole.

Ilya. Of course it's Ilya.

Shane opens the door.

Ilya is leaning against the frame, tie gone, top two buttons undone, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who definitely shouldn't be here.

"You skip party," Ilya says. Not a question.

"I was tired."

"You are always tired now."

Shane doesn't have a response to that. Just steps back, lets Ilya in.

Ilya walks past him into the room, takes in the untouched room service tray, the unmade bed, the general air of someone who's given up on pretending.

"You look like shit," Ilya says.

"Thanks."

"I am serious." Ilya turns to face him. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

Shane closes the door. Leans against it. "Why are you here, Ilya?"

"You don't want me here?"

"That's not what I asked."

Ilya studies him for a long moment. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and says, "You don't call anymore."

Shane's throat tightens. "I called you last week."

"I call you. You answer. Is not same thing."

"I've been busy."

"Busy or avoiding?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes." Ilya's voice is quieter now. Missing the usual bravado. "It matters."

Shane looks away. At the window. At the city lights beyond the glass. At anything but Ilya's face.

"I can't do this right now," Shane says.

"Do what?"

"This. Whatever this is. I don't have the energy to—" He stops. Breathes. "I can't pretend tonight, okay? I just can't."

Ilya is silent for a beat. Then, "So do not."

Shane laughs, bitter and short. "You make it sound easy."

"Is easy. You just stop pretending."

"And then what?"

"Then you tell me what's wrong."

Shane shakes his head. "You don't want to know."

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because you are miserable," Ilya says, simple and factual. "And I don't know why. And it is making me—" He stops. Switches to Russian, mutters something under his breath. 

Then back to English, "It is bothering me."

Despite everything, Shane almost smiles. "Bothering you."

"Yes."

"That's very romantic."

"I am not romantic. I am Russian."

This time Shane does smile. Small. Tired. But real.

Ilya sees it. Something in his expression softens.

"Sit," Ilya says, patting the bed next to him.

Shane hesitates. Then crosses the room and sits, careful to leave space between them.

They sit in silence for a while. The heater kicks on with a low hum. Outside, a siren wails past.

"I came out," Shane says finally. "To my team."

Ilya goes very still. "When?"

"Three weeks ago."

"And?"

Shane's laugh is hollow. "And now I'm getting twelve minutes a game, my coach won't look at me, half my team has moved their stalls away from mine, and my agent is fielding trade offers."

Ilya's jaw tightens. "They are pushing you out."

"Yeah."

"Because you are gay."

"Yeah."

"This is—" Ilya switches to Russian again. Whatever he says sounds violent.

"I knew it would be bad," Shane continues. "I just didn't think it would be this bad. I thought—I don't know what I thought. That they'd be professional, maybe. That it wouldn't matter as long as I played well." He scrubs a hand over his face. 

"I was stupid."

"You are not stupid."

"I came out to a professional hockey team in Montreal and expected them to be fine with it. That's pretty fucking stupid."

"Is brave."

"It's the same thing."

"No," Ilya says firmly. "Is not."

Shane looks at him then. Really looks. At the set of Ilya's jaw. The intensity in his eyes. The way his hands are clenched into loose fists on his thighs, like he's physically restraining himself from hitting something.

"You're angry," Shane says.

"Of course I am angry. They are—" Ilya stops. Breathes. "You should not have to deal with this."

"Yeah, well. I am."

"So quit."

Shane blinks. "What?"

"Quit. Leave Montreal. Come to—" Ilya stops himself. Recalibrates. "Find different team. Team that is not full of assholes."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm still under contract. Because leaving looks like I couldn't handle it. Because—" Shane's voice cracks. He stops. Steadies it. "Because I don't want them to win."

Ilya's expression shifts. "Shane—"

"I spent seven years running from this," Shane says. The words come faster now, breaking loose. 

"I dated Rose because I thought if I could just be normal, just be what everyone wanted, it would be easier. And it was easier. It was so much easier to lie. To pretend. To let everyone assume." He looks at his hands. "But then I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't keep—" 

His voice breaks again. "I couldn't keep running."

Ilya is quiet.

"I'm sorry," Shane says.

"For what?"

"For lying to you. For dating her when I—" 

He stops. Can't finish.

"When you what?"

Shane's heart is hammering. He's said too much already. Can't stop now.

"When I already knew," he says quietly. "That it was you."

The silence that follows is so complete Shane can hear his own pulse.

Ilya stares at him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I'm sorry." Shane's voice is barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry I ran after last time. I'm sorry I started something with Rose when I—when we were still—" 

He can't say it. Can't name what they've been for nine years. "I'm sorry I was a coward."

"You are not—"

"I am," Shane interrupts. "I've been a coward my whole life. About this. About you. About everything."

Ilya's jaw works. He looks away, then back. "You think I was not also scared?"

"You've never been scared of anything."

"That is bullshit." Ilya's accent thickens. "You think I did not also run? You think I did not also lie to myself? You think it was easy for me to—" 

He stops and swears in Russian, “You are not only one who was afraid."

Shane's chest aches. "I know."

"Then stop apologizing."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because you deserved better than what I gave you."

Ilya stares at him. Then he reaches out and takes Shane's face in both hands—rough, certain, the way he does everything.

"Listen to me," Ilya says. "You do not get to decide what I deserve. That is for me. You understand?"

Shane nods, throat too tight to speak.

"I forgive you," Ilya says. Simple. Final. "For Rose. For running. For all of it. But you have to forgive you also."

"I don't know how."

"Then I will wait."

Shane's breath catches. "Ilya—"

Ilya kisses him.

It's not gentle. It's not careful. It's nine years of wanting and fighting and running, finally catching up to them all at once. Shane makes a sound into Ilya's mouth—broken, desperate—and kisses back like he's drowning.

They break apart. Foreheads pressed together. Breathing hard.

"I missed you," Shane says.

"I know."

"I'm in love with you."

Ilya goes still. Pulls back just enough to meet Shane's eyes.

"Say again."

Shane's heart is racing. He says it again, steadier this time, "I'm in love with you. I have been for—I don't even know how long. Years. Maybe since the beginning."

Ilya's expression cracks. Something raw and unguarded flickers across his face.

"Ty chertovski durak," he says softly. You absolute idiot.

Then he kisses Shane again. They don't talk after that.

Shane pulls Ilya closer, fingers digging into his shoulders, and Ilya responds immediately—hands sliding under Shane's shirt, bunching the fabric, tugging it up and off. Shane's dress shirt hits the floor. Ilya's suit jacket follows.

They've done this before. A hundred times. More. Hotel rooms and borrowed apartments and the cottage in the summer when no one's watching. Familiar choreography. Practiced routine.

But this is different.

This time, when Ilya pushes Shane back onto the bed, there's no pretense that it's just physical. No pretense that they'll wake up tomorrow and go back to being rivals who happen to fuck when convenient.

This time, when Shane pulls Ilya down on top of him, it means something.

Ilya's mouth is on his neck, teeth scraping, and Shane's hands are in his hair, and they're both breathing too hard, too fast, like they've been holding their breath for years.

"Ilya," Shane gasps.

Ilya pulls back just enough to look at him. His pupils are blown, lips already swollen. "What?"

"I don't want to pretend anymore."

"Then don't."

"I mean it. I don't want this to be—" Shane's voice catches. "I don't want to wake up tomorrow and have you act like this didn't matter."

Ilya's expression softens. He cups Shane's face, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

"You think I could forget this?" Ilya says quietly. "You tell me you love me and you think I will pretend in the morning?"

"I don't know."

"Shane." Ilya leans in, presses a kiss to his temple. "I am many things. Asshole, yes. Bad at emotions, yes. But I am not liar. Not about this."

Shane's breath shudders out of him. "Okay."

"Okay," Ilya echoes.

Then he kisses Shane again, slower this time. Deliberate. Like he's trying to say something he doesn't have words for.

Shane kisses back and lets himself believe it.

Ilya's hand comes up, cups Shane's jaw, tilts his face until their eyes meet. There's something raw in his expression—want and certainty and the weight of nine years catching up all at once.

"You ran," Ilya says, voice low. "But you came back."

Shane's breath hitches. "Yeah."

"And now you are mine."

It's not a question. Shane answers anyway. "Yeah."

Ilya kisses him hard—teeth catching Shane's bottom lip, biting just enough to make him gasp. Shane's hands fist in Ilya's shirt, pulling him closer, pulling him down.

"Ilya," Shane breathes against his mouth. "Please—"

"Please what?"

"I need—" Shane's voice cracks. He doesn't finish. Doesn't know how.

Ilya understands anyway. He shoves Shane back onto the mattress, follows him down, and strips Shane's shirt off in one rough pull. The fabric tears slightly at the seam. Neither of them care.

Shane's chest is bare, flushed, marked with faint bruises from last week's game against Tampa—a cross-check that didn't get called, a hit he took in front of the net. Ilya's fingers trace one of the bruises, almost gentle.

"You are so fucking stubborn," Ilya says.

"Takes one to know one."

Ilya huffs a laugh. Leans down and bites the bruise. Shane arches up with a broken sound.

"On your knees," Ilya says, pulling back.

Shane's stomach twists, tight and expectant, as he scrambles up onto his knees. They've done this before—maybe a hundred times, maybe more, if he bothers to count the years and the cities and the hotel rooms. He never has. Counting makes it too real, too much. But now, with Ilya kneeling in front of him, close enough that the heat of his body is a physical force, it feels like every time they've ever done this is collapsing into the same moment, layered and heavy and impossible to bear.

He kneels on the edge of the bed, knees pressed into the cheap, scratchy comforter. Ilya is in his space instantly, looming close, hands already at his own chest, popping each button with quick, clean movements. The way he undresses is both mechanical and careless—each motion practiced, yet utterly unconcerned with how Shane is watching him. He shrugs out of the suit jacket and tosses it, never breaking eye contact. Then the shirt, the white fabric sliding over his arms, baring the broad planes of his chest. He leaves the shirt in a heap on the floor, goes for the belt. Metal clinks. The fly pops open.

Shane can’t look away. It’s not the first time he’s seen Ilya naked—far from it—but now he’s hyperaware of every detail: the cut of muscle where his arm meets his shoulder; a constellation of old, pale scars curving under his ribs; the faint shadow of stubble crawling down from his jaw toward his collarbone. Ilya’s body is a map of bad decisions and pride and survival, and Shane wants to memorize every inch of it, put his mouth on each place that says I survived. I fought for this.

He can’t stop shaking. Not from nerves, not exactly. It’s more like the pressure in his chest has reached some impossible new equilibrium, a mix of desire and terror and dark, ugly joy. He wants this—wants to want it, wants to deserve it—but the wanting feels like a risk every time.

He’s still in his own undershirt, the pale blue stretching over his chest. He’s aware of how exposed he must look: cheeks flushed, hair a mess, eyes shining too bright. Ilya’s gaze drops from his face to his throat, his hands working at the waistband of his pants now, pushing them down with a grunt. Ilya is already half-hard, and the line of his body is so familiar that Shane aches to touch him, to close the space between them.

But he waits. He waits because that’s how it always works, because for all the ways Ilya is reckless and hungry and mean, he never takes more than Shane will give. Never pushes past what Shane asks for, even when Shane’s the one breaking first.

Ilya stands there a moment, wearing nothing but a thin stretch of boxer briefs, and even that is gone in another second. He’s beautiful, but not in a way that’s soft or easy; it’s a beauty defined by sharpness, by the way he owns the space around him, by the challenge in his eyes.

Shane’s pulse kicks up another notch. He digs his fingers into the bedding, bracing himself for what comes next.

Ilya moves in, slow and controlled, and drags a thumb up Shane’s jaw. His hand is big and warm, three knuckles split from a fight last month, his touch almost gentle. He tips Shane’s face up, and their eyes meet fully for the first time since Shane walked through the door.

There’s a question in Ilya’s expression—something careful, almost wary—and for a split second Shane wants to laugh at the idea that Ilya Rozanov could ever be nervous. But then he realizes: it isn’t nerves. It’s hope. Raw and reckless and so obvious it hurts.

Shane feels it snap inside him, that last bit of resistance. He brings his hands up, palms flat against Ilya’s chest, and presses in. The heat of Ilya’s skin seeps into him, electric. He wants to say something, but his throat is locked down.

Ilya’s lips quirk, not quite a smile. He dips his head, mouth brushing Shane’s ear.Ilya’s thumb traces the sharp line of Shane's jaw, roughness at odds with the careful way he tips Shane’s face up.

“You want this?” Ilya asks. His voice is low, not a whisper, but something private, meant only for them and the closed, dim room. It’s a question Shane has never answered out loud, not even in the long ago days when it was just fumbling hands and shared breath in the darkness, before anyone had the courage to say what anything meant.

But Shane has never wanted anything more. The shame and the longing war inside him, two old enemies, both carving him up in different ways. He wants to say yes, wants to say it out loud and mean it, even as the urge to hide, to minimize, to deflect with a joke buzzes under his skin.

Ilya waits. Not impatient, not cold. Just—waits. His eyes are steady, unreadable, the kind of look Shane remembers from faceoffs: absolute focus, impossible to ignore.

Shane licks his lips, his mouth already dry, and nods.

“You know I do,” he says, voice smaller than he means.

Ilya’s mouth quirks, a ghost of a smile.

“Say it.”

There’s a beat where Shane’s brain blanks out, then he manages, “I want you.”

It’s barely above a whisper, but the words hang in the space between them, heavy as a lead puck.

Ilya’s eyes flare, hunger and something almost tender passing through them.

“Good,” he says. His hand drops to his own cock, which is flushed dark and already hard, and he grips himself, slow and unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world. He watches Shane’s eyes track the movement, the way Shane’s lips part, the way his breath hitches.

“Then show me,” Ilya says.

Shane’s muscles go tight, anticipation pulsing through him. He shifts his knees, the cheap comforter scratching at bare skin, and braces himself with hands planted on either side of Ilya’s thighs. There’s a moment of dizziness, like stepping off a ledge, and then he’s leaning in, dizzy with how much he wants this, how much he wants Ilya.

He licks a stripe up the length of Ilya’s cock, tasting salt and skin and something earthy that’s just Ilya. He’s done this before, he knows what Ilya likes, but tonight it feels different—like every movement, every decision, is happening for the first time. He mouths at the head, tongue circling, and Ilya’s hand comes down, burrowing into Shane’s hair. The grip is tight, but not painful—just enough to hold him there, to remind him who’s in control. But Shane knows he could pull back at any second, that the control is only as rigid as he wants it to be.

He opens his mouth, takes Ilya in, working past the initial stretch and burn. He breathes through his nose, goes slow, hollowing his cheeks, tongue pressed flat. Ilya’s hand tightens, a wordless signal, and Shane moans quietly around the thickness in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Ilya breathes, the world curling out of him like it’s been punched loose from his chest. His other hand finds Shane’s shoulder, fingers digging in with a force that would bruise anyone less used to being handled by Ilya. “Just like that.”

Shane works a steady rhythm, letting Ilya’s hips guide him. The smell—sweat, sex, something cologne-sharp from the ruined suit—fills his head, crowding out everything else. He feels the vibration of Ilya’s muttered praise in his bones.

“Takoy khoroshiy, Shanechka—so fucking good—” half in English, half in Russian, the way it always is when Ilya gets too far inside his own head to care which language slips out.

The words hit Shane like a punch. He’s not used to being praised for this, for anything. He tries to keep his eyes open, looking up at Ilya, but the emotion in Ilya’s face is blinding. He closes his eyes instead, lets the tears sting hot in the corners, and focuses on the way Ilya’s cock feels between his lips, the weight of it, the taste, the heat.

He goes deeper, lets himself gag a little, and Ilya’s hips jerk in response, a shudder running through his whole body.

“Fuck, yes,” Ilya groans. The hand in Shane’s hair is a lifeline, holding him steady, guiding him. Shane likes it, likes the helpless feeling, the way it strips off all pretense and leaves him only what he is: someone who wants, someone who can’t help wanting. He moans again, louder this time, and Ilya’s grip tightens in warning.

“Careful,” Ilya says, even as he fucks into Shane’s mouth, just a little, unable to keep still. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

It’s ridiculous. Shane wants to laugh—he’s been taking elbows to the face, getting concussed and stitched up for years, and Ilya is worried about whether he can take a blowjob. But it’s also—Ilya’s way. The only way he knows how to be soft.

Shane pulls back until just the head rests on his tongue, then slides down again, over and over, finding a rhythm that makes Ilya’s thighs tremble. He looks up, lets Ilya see the mess he’s making: wet cheeks, lips swollen, hair falling into his eyes. Ilya’s breathing is ragged, mouth open, eyes dark and wild.

“So good for me,” Ilya murmurs, thumb brushing away a tear that slips down Shane’s cheek. “Always so good.”

The words cut right through him. Shane wants to say something, to answer, but his mouth is full and his hands are shaking and all he can do is moan his response, needy and desperate.

He feels everything at once: the ache in his jaw, the roughness of Ilya’s palm on his scalp, the burn in his lungs when he pulls in a shaky breath. The room is too warm, their bodies too close, and yet it’s still not enough. He wants more, wants to crawl inside Ilya’s skin and never leave.

Ilya’s hand tightens again, and Shane feels the tremor in his thighs, the warning in the set of his jaw.

“Enough,” Ilya says, voice rough. But he doesn’t let go, not right away. He strokes Shane’s hair, fingers careful now, and waits until Shane’s breathing has slowed before he eases out of his mouth.

Shane blinks, dazed, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes are burning, nose running, but he doesn’t care. The only thing he can see is Ilya, looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world worth touching.

When Ilya pulls him off, Shane’s face is wet.

Ilya stares at him for a beat. Then he wipes Shane's cheek with his thumb, brings it to his own mouth.

"Bozhe," Ilya breathes. God. "Look at you."

Shane's chest is heaving. "Ilya—"

"I know." Ilya pulls him up, flips him onto his back, strips the rest of his clothes away. Shane's cock is hard against his stomach, leaking. Ilya's eyes drag over him—possessive, hungry.

"Spread your legs."

The command isn't new—Shane knows it, his body knows it. Still, it lands in the air between them with a kind of gravity that feels fresh, like the difference between a practice shot and the first puck drop of a playoff game. He moves, knees falling apart, feet braced wide on the sheets, and he holds Ilya's gaze as he does it, daring himself to stay exposed, to let Ilya see everything. The way he’s trembling, the way the muscles in his thighs jump with anticipation.

Ilya’s hand comes down, heavy and certain, wrapping strong around the back of Shane’s thigh and holding it in place. Just that—he could pin Shane with one hand if he wanted to, and sometimes he does, but now he just steadies him, thumb drawing mindless circles into Shane’s skin above the bone. Something about it makes Shane want to laugh, or maybe cry more. Maybe both.

“You remember how this goes?” Ilya asks, his voice gone dark at the edges, every word edged with intent. 

He’s closer now, the heat of him filling up the narrow space on the mattress. Shane could count every freckle on his shoulders, if he wanted to. He could lean forward and taste the salt on his collarbone. But he just nods, a quick jerk of his chin, and swallows hard.

“Yeah,” he says, and it comes out hoarse, nothing like the confidence he wears on the ice.

Ilya nods once, like that’s all the answer he needs. He reaches, without looking, for the drawer in the nightstand. Pops it open, retrieves the bottle of lube. It’s such a practiced movement that Shane wonders—how many times has Ilya done this? Not with Shane, but in general. How many times has he been the one opening someone up, making them feel like this? A spike of jealousy twists through him, sharp and pointless, and he tries to push it away.

Ilya slicks his fingers, careful, efficient. He kneels in between Shane’s legs, the mattress dipping under his weight, and leans in closer. His fingers trail up the inside of Shane’s thigh, slow, almost teasing, then press right up against his rim. He doesn’t push in, not yet. He waits, watching Shane’s face, tracking every twitch, every little shiver.

“Relax,” Ilya says, and somehow it’s softer than the last command, like he’s handing Shane a secret.

Shane tries. He lets out a long breath, the kind he uses to steady his hands before a shootout, and focuses on the feeling: Ilya’s fingers, warm and slick, circling and pressing, then finally breaching him. The stretch burns a little at first, but it’s a familiar kind of pain—one that Shane has learned to crave, if only because of what comes after.

Ilya works him open slowly, methodically, like he’s tuning a delicate piece of equipment. One finger, then another, each one stretching and coaxing until Shane can take both easily. Shane finds himself rocking back onto them, greedy, wanting more. He bites his lip, not sure if he should be embarrassed by how desperate he feels, or if he should just give in.

Ilya’s free hand strokes up the length of Shane’s thigh, his hip, tracing the line of muscle there. He never looks away from Shane’s face, not for a second. It’s unnerving, being seen so completely. It makes Shane want to hide, to pull a blanket over his head, but it also makes him ache in a way that’s got nothing to do with his body and everything to do with the hollow space behind his ribs.

“Doing okay?” Ilya asks, not a hint of mockery in it. Just real concern. The pads of his fingers brush Shane’s prostate, and Shane’s breath stutters, eyes squeezing shut.

“Yeah,” Shane croaks, and his whole body flushes hot. “Fuck, yeah.

Ilya bends forward, brings his face close to Shane’s, and says, “You are crying.”

There’s no judgment in it, no surprise. Just an observation, like telling him he’s bleeding after a high-stick to the chin. Shane wants to say something clever, something to play it off, but the words aren’t there. He’s stuck in this moment, throat tight, eyes watering.

“I know,” he manages, voice wobbling.

Ilya leans in and kisses him. Not rough, not demanding. Just soft, lips brushing the tears away from Shane’s cheek, then the corner of his mouth. The gentleness of it is almost a shock—Shane is used to Ilya being all sharpness and hunger, but this is something else. Something careful.

“Why?” Ilya asks, voice so low it’s barely a sound at all.

Shane shakes his head, tears leaking sideways into his hair.

“I don’t know.” He tries to smile, to make it less humiliating, but it comes out crooked.

“It just—it feels like—” He stops, can’t finish.

“Like what?” Ilya pushes, not letting him close up.

Shane’s mouth works, searching. “Like it matters this time.”

Ilya goes very still, the way he does during an overtime faceoff, all energy coiling in his body. He pulls his fingers out, palms the length of his own cock, slicks it quickly. He looks at Shane with an intensity that makes Shane’s stomach swoop and his heart beat in his throat.

“It always mattered,” Ilya says, and it’s not soft, not gentle at all. It’s fierce and raw and a little bit angry, as if he’s been waiting for Shane to figure this out for years.

Then he pushes in.

There’s the familiar pressure, then pain, then the sharp, shattering burn of being forced open around something too big to take. Ilya’s cock is thick, unyielding, and Shane’s body wants to tense up, to resist, but he forces himself to breathe, to let go. He feels every inch as Ilya presses in, slow and careful but unrelenting. Sweat beads along Shane’s spine. His vision blurs for a second, but he blinks and holds on.

“Breathe,” Ilya says, and he’s panting too, muscles along his arms and chest bunched tight with the effort of holding himself steady. He’s barely halfway in, holding still, giving Shane time.

Shane nods, sets his jaw, and says, “Move.”

Ilya groans, deep in his chest. “You sure?”

 “Yeah. Please.”

The word comes out shaky, almost a whimper, but he means it. He wants this. Wants to feel full, wanted, claimed in a way that leaves no room for doubt. Ilya obliges, hips rolling forward, sinking in inch by inch until their bodies are flush. Shane feels split open, shattered. It’s overwhelming, but also—perfect.

“Fuck,” Shane gasps, voice breaking. 

The pain is there, yes, but it’s already melting into pleasure, a line of fire down his spine. He can’t stop the tears, not even a little.

Ilya bends over him, forearm braced by Shane’s head, and holds him through it. He doesn’t say anything else, just starts to move, slow at first, then building a rhythm that sets Shane’s whole world spinning. The drag and slide, the heat of Ilya’s body, the weight of him pressing Shane into the mattress—it’s too much, but Shane wants all of it.

Ilya’s hand snakes under Shane’s knee and hooks it up around his waist, changing the angle, driving deeper. Every thrust feels like it’s knocking something loose in Shane, every brush of Ilya’s cock against his prostate sends sparks up the back of his skull. He can barely breathe, can barely see, but he doesn’t want it to stop. Not ever.

“You’re so good,” Ilya grits out, lips close to Shane’s ear. “Taking me so fucking good—look at you—”

 Shane can’t look. Tears flood his vision, blurring everything, but he can feel it: the way Ilya’s voice trembles, the way his hands shake, the way he’s holding on by a single fraying thread.

Shane fists the sheets, anchors himself, pushes back to meet every thrust. He’s shaking all over, the pleasure tipping over into something like grief. Like worship. He wants to say something—wants to thank Ilya or curse him or beg for more—but all that comes out is a desperate little moan.

Ilya’s hand finds Shane’s cock, already hard, already leaking against his belly. He strokes him in time with his own movements, rough and relentless. The pressure builds fast, unbearably fast, and Shane isn’t ready for it, isn’t ready for the way his body is already teetering on the edge.

The sound that comes from Ilya isn’t a word, just a broken, needy noise. “Come for me,” he says, voice shredded. “Let me see you.”

Shane shatters. He comes, hard, messy, his vision going white at the edges. His body convulses, clamping down around Ilya, and the aftershocks ripple through him for what feels

Shane is still crying. Can't stop. Ilya doesn't ask him to. Just holds him, presses kisses to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

"I have you," Ilya says softly. "I have you."

Shane nods against his chest. Believes him.

Eventually the tears stop. The shaking stops. Shane's breathing evens out.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"For what?"

"For crying all over you."

Ilya snorts. "You always cry."

"Not like that."

"No," Ilya agrees. "Not like that."

Shane shifts, looks up at him. "Was it—was it okay?"

Ilya's expression softens. "Was perfect."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Shane." Ilya cups his face. "You told me you love me. And then you let me fuck you while you cried about it. You think I am complaining?"

Despite everything, Shane laughs. "When you put it like that—"

"Is romantic."

"It's really not."

"Is Russian romantic."

Shane laughs again, harder this time, and Ilya grins.

They lie there in the quiet. The hotel room is still too warm. The sheets are a mess. Shane's face is sticky with dried tears and his body aches in the best way.

"Ilya?" Shane says after a while.

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not running."

Ilya presses a kiss to the top of his head. "Where would I go?"

Shane doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't need one.

He closes his eyes and lets himself rest.

Later—after, when they're tangled together in sheets that smell like hotel detergent and sweat and sex—Ilya traces idle patterns on Shane's shoulder.

"So," Ilya says. "You love me."

Shane huffs a laugh against Ilya's chest. "Yeah."

"For how long?"

"I don't know. A long time."

"Before Rose?"

"Yeah."

Ilya is quiet for a moment. 

"Why you didn't say?"

Shane closes his eyes. "Because saying it made it real. And if it was real, I had to do something about it. And I didn't know how to do something about it without losing everything."

"You thought you would lose me?"

"I thought I'd lose hockey. And I thought if I lost hockey, I'd lose myself. And then I'd have nothing to offer you anyway."

Ilya's hand stills. "You are idiot."

"I know."

"Hockey is not why I— I don't care about hockey. Not for this."

Shane's chest tightens. "You should."

"Why?"

"Because it's all I have."

"No," Ilya says firmly. He shifts, props himself up on one elbow to look down at Shane. "Is not all you have. You have me. You understand?"

Shane stares at him. At the certainty in his expression. At the way he says it like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"I understand," Shane says quietly.

"Good."

Ilya settles back down, pulls Shane closer. They lie there in silence, listening to the sounds of the hotel—muffled voices in the hallway, the hum of the ice machine, the city beyond the window.

"What happens now?" Shane asks eventually.

"What do you mean?"

"With us. With this."

Ilya is quiet for a beat. "What do you want to happen?"

Shane doesn't have to think about it. "I want to stop running."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes. We stop running." Ilya presses a kiss to the top of Shane's head. "Is easy."

"It's not easy."

"Is easy if you let it be."

Shane wants to argue. Wants to list all the reasons it's not easy—the distance, the rivalry, the fact that they play for different teams and can't exactly go public without causing a media shitstorm.

But Ilya's arms are solid around him, and for the first time in weeks Shane feels like he can breathe, and maybe easy isn't the right word but it's close enough.

"Okay," Shane says.

"Okay," Ilya echoes.

They fall asleep like that—tangled together, no space between them, the apology finally said and the running finally done.

Shane wakes up to sunlight slicing through the curtains and Ilya's phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand.

Ilya groans, rolls over, silences it without looking.

"What time is it?" Shane's voice is rough with sleep.

"Too early." Ilya pulls him closer. "Go back to sleep."

"We have media at nine."

"Fuck media."

Shane huffs a laugh. "You can't skip media."

"Watch me."

But Ilya is already shifting, sitting up, running a hand through his catastrophically messy hair. Shane watches him, traces the line of his spine, the breadth of his shoulders. Memorizes him in the early light.

Ilya catches him looking. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Liar."

Shane smiles. "Yeah."

Ilya leans down, kisses him slow and easy. "Good morning, liubimiyy.”

"Good morning."

They get ready in comfortable silence. Ilya showers first, then Shane. They share the bathroom mirror while getting dressed—Ilya in a suit, Shane in team-issued warmups for the morning skate. Domestic. Easy.

Ilya catches Shane's eye in the mirror. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

Shane turns, steps into Ilya's space, and kisses him. "I'm sure."

Ilya grins. "Good. Now go. You are slow and we are late."

Shane flips him off. Ilya laughs.

At the door, Shane pauses. "Tonight?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Shane leaves first. Takes the stairs instead of the elevator, giving Ilya time to leave separately. Old habits.

But when Shane gets to the lobby and sees Ilya already there, talking to a group of Eastern Conference guys, Ilya's eyes find his immediately.

Ilya winks and Shane's chest warms.

He heads to the rink for morning skate, and for the first time in weeks, the weight on his chest feels lighter.